


Un bon lapin est un lapin mort

by spire_cx



Category: Infinite (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 13:42:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1107535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spire_cx/pseuds/spire_cx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Howon's rival helps him out of his slump.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Un bon lapin est un lapin mort

**Author's Note:**

> written for the 2013 Infinite secret santa. originally posted [here](http://infinitesanta.livejournal.com/28910.html).

It's ten o'clock on a May night and Howon is walking across a field. The air is cool from this afternoon's rainshower, and his skin is speckled with gooseflesh. The scent of the storm is still heavy on the grass, its fragrance coming up as Howon crushes it underfoot. His sneakers are damp and growing damper; the field is wet and very wide.

The grounds are empty around him. Howon walks across the parking lot, the track, and the baseball diamond, completely alone. The football field shines in the distance, deserted but still lit, the long and unbroken shadows of the bleachers falling together like a maze across the ground.

The tennis courts are empty too, when Howon reaches them. The gate creaks open under his hand, and the sound echoes through the empty evening. The floodlights are white and sterilizing and moths and mosquitoes flutter like tiny comets through the beams. Howon spends a long moment looking out over the familiar scene before putting down his duffel bag and pulling out his racket.

Tonight's first order of business: his serve.

The sounds of a racket twanging and balls popping against concrete used to be invigorating. Howon used to enjoy practicing: all alone in the evening or early morning, like a warrior whose life depended on his preparedness for the upcoming battle. There was a power in taking his fate into his own hands: something exciting about fighting and sacrificing to ensure victory.

Lately, though, it's been different. Lately these sounds have mocked him, reminding him of all the balls he's not hitting and points he's not scoring and games he's not winning, and how little any of his efforts to change things seem to matter. He's lost his last six matches. The season is already almost over, and if he doesn't shape up soon he'll end up with his worst record since middle school, but nothing he tries seems to be able change the tide. Hours of practice, hours of study, new techniques, new gear, even a new diet, and still he loses, even to opponents he would have deemed pushovers last season. 

He grits his teeth and serves. He doesn't know what else to do. He serves and serves and serves, trying to ignore the ridicule he hears in the sounds of his practice, trying not to feel so humiliated at every error. He tells himself that tennis is a mental game as much as a physical one; he tells himself that if he wants to win, the first obstacle he needs to conquer is his own self-doubt.

Of course, as with most things in this game, it's easier said than done.

An hour later and Howon is still too wrapped up in his own thoughts to hear someone approaching. He looks up after bending down for a ball and notices a figure coming out of the darkness, coming towards the light: young, lean, masculine, with a swaying gait and boyish haircut that Howon recognizes but cannot place.

"Mind if I join you?" the figure asks, his voice ringing across the grass.

Howon hears his tone, sees his silhouette, makes the connections, and goes suddenly dizzy with anger.

Nam Woohyun. Of course it would be him. No one else would show up to practice at midnight. Only Woohyun—so desperate to keep that top spot on the roster, so intent on impressing their peers, so determined to please their coach—cares so much about his standing to sacrifice sleep for the sake of his continued dominance.

Only Woohyun is such a perfect, beautiful asshole.

He does not wait for Howon to greet him. Woohyun invites himself into the courts and tosses his bag on the ground. He's wearing a pair of track pants and a sleeveless white tee and the way it drapes across his shoulders and shows off his biceps makes Howon cheeks hot.

"What's up?" Woohyun says, tone forcedly casual, and Howon's blood begins to boil.

It's a convoluted thing, the way Woohyun makes him feel. The guy is phony, self-centered, narcissistic, and a shameless kiss-ass, and every word out of his mouth is infuriating. From his sycophancy to his over-enthusiasm to his constant condescension, he's the most obnoxious teammate Howon has ever had the displeasure of playing with. He's also the sexiest teammate Howon has ever had the displeasure of playing with, and it is definitely a displeasure: to feel desire so mixed up in disgust, to return home from practice every day with a headache and hard-on and a heart throbbing with rage.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Woohyun dig through his duffel bag. "I'm practicing," Howon says, squeezing a ball tightly. "What are you doing here?"

Behind his voice are years of rivalry, envy, disgust, and desire, and weeks of frustration and loss. He can never help it when it comes to Woohyun. As hard as he tries to keep it in, it always comes out, every bit of it, the good and the bad.

"Same thing you're doing here," Woohyun responds, shucking his racket out of its cover. "Practicing."

Howon turns back to the net and fires off a serve. It's terribly off-target, and the ball bounces off into the far corner of the courts. His hands are shaking.

"You're still number one last time I checked," he says, his tone bitter even to his own ears. "Go home and get some sleep."

Woohyun laughs. "If I don't practice, I won't be number one for long."

The hair at the back of Howon's neck stands on end at Woohyun's implications.

"Right," he mutters, and tosses another serve into the air. He attempts to slice out a topspin but he's too distracted and the ball careens wildly out-of-bounds.

"Want to play a match?" Woohyun asks.

Howon's head begins to tingle. No, he doesn't want to play a match. He _wants_ Woohyun to go the fuck home. The thought of being here alone with Woohyun, of bearing all of him in silence, is enough to make Howon sick with anger and anticipation. His stomach is roiling and his legs are itching, desperate to walk him off the court and away across the field—but there's a part of him, an anchor in the back of his brain, that's making him stay. It's pride, mostly, heavy and dense like a block of iron that's been tempered by tenacity, obstinacy, and no small desire to spend his evening drinking in the sight of Woohyun.

Disgusting, Howon thinks. Disgusting that he wants any of this so badly.

He spikes his last ball into the ground. It sails high over the net, bright against the black night sky. They both watch it as it bounces across the court to finally rest against the chain-link fence. 

"Sure," Howon says.

Woohyun smiles, crooked, blinding. "Just one match," he says, "just one."

Things start off well. Howon has already warmed up while Woohyun hasn't, and the advantage it gives him is clear as Woohyun loses several points to slow and sloppy footwork. Howon, riding the crest of his spiteful energy, racks up games with winning serves and well-planned volleys, and puts the first set easily in the bag.

The second set turns things around. Woohyun has gotten into his groove, and searched out Howon's sore spots. Woohyun's strength has always been resilience: he scores points not off of outstanding technique but his ability to run his opponent ragged, chasing his shots back and forth across the court until they make a mistake. 

And Howon makes a lot of mistakes.

It's almost like Woohyun is teasing them out: like he knows they're lying just beneath his skin, waiting to be revealed. Howon sees Woohyun smiling, grinning as he returns his shots, beaming like he's basking in the glow of his own skill, and Howon's stomach goes to hard and impossible knots of self-reflexive hate.

Over the net Woohyun tries to draw his gaze, but Howon looks away—feeling like a martyr, feeling his martyrdom burning through him.

He scores some points, here and there—in the moments when his anger dissipates enough to be channeled, when he can take a deep enough breath to make useful the frustration that's pounding through his veins. He gets a few aces past Woohyun, which Woohyun cheers for once they've whizzed past the reach of his racket. It makes Howon's throat go tight and he's not sure if it's because he thinks Woohyun is impressed or because he thinks Woohyun is just trying to appease him. Somehow Woohyun has managed to make even his winning shots feel awful.

Woohyun takes the third set, and the fourth set too, and Howon wonders if Woohyun will have the decency to suggest they call it a night before he's completely humiliated. There's no way Howon's going to win; Woohyun's in top form, even though it's the middle of the night. Always perfect, Howon thinks, watching the lines of Woohyun's body as he prepares to serve. Never a hair out of place.

They're changing courts after the fifth set when Woohyun stops Howon with a hand tight around his arm. Howon looks up at him for what feels like the first time that night, meeting his dark gaze head-on. It's almost blinding in its intensity, even in the blackness of night and the deep shadows of the spotlights. His expression is fixed, solemn and serious, and suddenly, though Howon wants only to hate Woohyun in this moment too, he can hardly breathe.

"Listen," Woohyun says, "you're not going to win if winning is the only reason you're playing. You can't just be good and be happy with only being good." He presses a canister of balls to Howon's chest. "Winning isn't what matters. Being good isn't what matters. It's the person you're winning _for_ that matters."

Woohyun squeezes his bicep gently, fingertips pressing into muscle.

"It's the _reason_ you want to be good."

Howon's skin goes suddenly cold: cold with shock but hot with indignation and tingling all over with shame. He doesn't respond. Woohyun releases his arm and lets him go, fingers lingering. Howon stares at Woohyun's shoulders, thick and solid and real beneath his t-shirt, as he walks away.

It takes a moment—or two, or three—for Howon's body to come back to life. When he walks back to the baseline again, when he turns to face the court again, when he looks again across the net at Woohyun, body poised and full of coiled energy, ready to receive the service, everything looks different. Newer, somehow.

He remembers, suddenly, something his aunt told him as a child, when one of the boys at school had taken the helicopter he had been playing with and he had thrown a fit and cried the whole way home, even after he'd gotten it back.

She had sat him down at her dining room table. "Imagine a muddy stream," she had said. "The stream is your mind and the mud is your anger." 

From one of the kitchen cabinets she produced an empty glass. "Now imagine the stream running clean. Imagine all the mud and dirt flowing out." 

At the sink she opened the tap and let the water rush out, clear and cold. Howon watched her put the glass under the faucet, filling it until it overflowed with crystalline water that spilled over her hand and into the sink with pretty slapping sounds.

Then she closed the tap, put the glass in front of him on the table, and smiled.

"Let your anger pass through you. Let it flow away, out of your body, and once it's gone, you'll be the only thing left, and everything will be more clear."

Across the court, Woohyun waits patiently for Howon's serve. Howon shifts his weight, meets his gaze, and tosses the ball in the air.

The rest of the match goes, unsurprisingly, though not without challenge, to Woohyun. Howon manages to take the sixth set off him, and the seventh goes into a tiebreaker, but by the eighth Howon is too exhausted to pose any threat to Woohyun's dominance.

That's fine. Howon lets the loss go, and watches it float away like a leaf on the surface of a swift river. Woohyun won for a reason.

After the last point is scored, Woohyun bends over and stares at the ground, trying to catch his breath. Howon watches the curves of his body. His back, bowed over. His knotted hands braced on his knees.

Woohyun looks up at him, his eyes bright black, and nods.

"Good game," he says, voice low.

Howon holds his gaze for a long moment.

"Yeah," he responds. "Good game."

Howon doesn't say anything more as turns to pack his things back into his bag. Behind him Woohyun is silent, unmoving. When Howon opens the gate it creaks again, the only sound, loud and raucous in the empty night.

As he walks off towards the locker room he can feel Woohyun's gaze burning holes in his shoulders.

He does not turn around to meet it.

 

Howon loses track of time in the showers. He stands under the water and concentrates on the way it feels streaming down his back. He focuses on the burn in his legs, the ache of exertion in his triceps, the exhaustion spreading through his shoulders and up his neck. He looks down and watches his hands, shaking in the water. He spends too long thinking about the look in Woohyun's eyes.

Howon is already dry and dressed when Woohyun finally comes in from the courts, his hair thick with sweat and his eyes sunken and dark. He's damp and slouched and his shoulders are loose; he looks like he's been fighting.

That hurts Howon in a strange place, like today he's seeing something painful that yesterday had been obscured. Today he has an image of Woohyun he didn't have yesterday: an image of him on the court, in the darkness, staring down at his feet and wondering who he's winning for.

Howon takes a deep breath before slinging his bag over his shoulder and walking to Woohyun's side.

"Hey," he starts, putting a hand in his pocket, "thanks for the help before."

Woohyun glances up at him, and a shiver goes down Howon's spine.

"No problem," Woohyun says. The corners of his mouth turn up in a small smile.

Howon can't help it: his stomach flutters, reaching for something more. Woohyun looks at him—looks straight at him, unblinking, and tilts his head a little to the side like he can hear the stutter in Howon's thoughts. His eyes narrow like a cat; he shifts his weight gracefully. He opens his mouth for a moment, and Howon's heart skips beats, waiting for him to speak.

"This might sound weird," Woohyun says finally, voice low, "but do you have... a thing for me?"

Howon sighs. _Finally_. 

Before, he would have thought this would be terrifying, but here in the moment, it's not. It feels like a stream running clean, like seeing his secrets spiraling down the drain. His body goes loose and his muscles relax like they haven't since he was a child. He realizes he's stupid for not figuring this out earlier.

"I can't tell if you hate me or if you're in love with me," Woohyun continues, his voice dropping deep and quiet, his hazel eyes bright in the fluorescent lights, "and I'm getting kind of tired of being confused."

Howon does not respond. His head is tingling again, but this time it's not in anger.

"Maybe it's both?" Woohyun asks, raising an eyebrow.

Howon smiles. "I'm sorry," he says, and it's the truth. He is sorry, for dragging this out like a petulant child. Woohyun looks at him like he's a child: smile soft and eyes hooded and expression open. Then he takes a step closer, into the circle of heat around Howon's body. They're close—too close, closer than perhaps they've ever been.

"Don't be," Woohyun says, "it's okay. I'm not gonna make you choose," and then he leans forward and kisses him.

Woohyun's skin is soft, his breath is warm, his lips are salty, and taken all together it feels like a slow, electric fire crackling through Howon's blood. It's like a tide coming in, lifting his feet off the ground, pulling him seaward. It's Woohyun— _Woohyun_ , finally, and he tastes like coconut lip balm and old paper and imperfection, and for Howon, it's heartstopping.

Howon gasps and feels his legs go to liquid as Woohyun opens his mouth and licks between Howon's lips to suck gently on his tongue. Woohyun's hands fist Howon's clothing, as Howon's wander aimlessly, pointlessly, desperately up and down Woohyun's back. He feels teeth around his lip, and hands on his chest, and then Woohyun is pushing him up against the lockers. He lets Woohyun toss his bag to the ground and pull his hoodie off his shoulders.

"Woohyun," he gasps, and it's like a magic spell, making his heart race faster and his muscles wind tighter. He doesn't know what to do with his hands, and clenches them at his sides. "Woohyun—"

Woohyun puts his mouth around Howon's Adam's apple and sucks. Howon shouts something wordless, wanting to shout more, wanting to tell Woohyun all the things he's told him in his fantasies. "Fuck," he groans, leaving out the rest of it, head spinning too fast to be able to voice the thought.

"Baby," Woohyun rumbles, and all at once Howon is desperate to see and touch and discover him. He presses his hips forward and pulls Woohyun towards him—he's hard, he's hard all over, his body bony and unyielding, and his erection pressing against Howon, needy and insistent. Howon's entire body feels heavy as he thinks, _that's for me, that's because of me._

He scrambles to push down Woohyun's pants; once they're down around his thighs Howon palms his ass greedily and Woohyun laughs. Woohyun's cock is long and narrow and slightly crooked but hard as a rock and full to bursting (beautiful, fucking mouthwatering) and when Howon finally puts his fingers around it and squeezes Woohyun lets out a long moan and his hips jerk forward into the touch.

Howon's never touched another man like this, and it's so, so good to finally do. Woohyun's cock is so warm and smooth and firm and when he pumps it and Woohyun gasps it feels like he's in control of something again.

He's so caught up in feeling Woohyun's body that he barely registers Woohyun's hands, which are fumbling with his fly and pulling his own dick from his boxers. Woohyun's touch along his shaft is foreign and strange, but in its strangeness it sends lightning arcing up Howon's spine. Woohyun smells like sex and his palm is rough and sticky and perfect—but then Woohyun spits in his hand and wraps his fingers around Howon's cock and it's more perfect than anything Howon had ever imagined possible.

Howon keens and gasps and slams his head back against the lockers. Woohyun is beside him, on top of him, grunting and moaning and they're breathing each other's air and staring down at their cocks in each other's fists and the sound of their arms moving and their skin slapping is filling the space and it's so good Howon feels about to float away.

He doesn't want to close his eyes, even for a moment. He's trying to keep his hand moving around Woohyun's cock but it's too much, his brain is short circuiting and his nerves have gone haywire and his body is distant, unresponsive: all he can do is watch the thick purple head of his cock disappear and reappear from the tight wet circle of Woohyun's fingers.

Beside him, Howon hears Woohyun inhale. "You're so fucking gorgeous," Woohyun says. "I wanted you so fucking bad."

Howon looks up. Woohyun is watching him, gaze roving around his face, and Howon can't tell if he's being serious or just trying to turn him on. His eyes are big and his lips are parted and all Howon can see is his red mouth, swollen and well-kissed. He did that, he thinks—he put that flush there.

His heart twists in his chest and his cock throbs. With his free hand he reaches up and touches Woohyun's lips. His fingers slide in the saliva there and all of a sudden the thought of Woohyun's head between his legs hits him like a freight train: his cock in Woohyun's mouth, Woohyun's tongue around his shaft, Woohyun's hand around his balls and a finger pressing behind them and Woohyun's eyes, looking up at him from behind his hair like he's looking at him now.

"Oh god," Howon moans as he looks down at Woohyun's wrist working him. Woohyun hastens his pace and tightens his grip and Howon can see him glancing back and forth between his dick and his face.

"Fuck yeah, come on," Woohyun says, seeing Howon slipping away, "come on baby."

"Yes," Howon gasps, "more, I'm--"

"Do it," Woohyun whispers.

As he speaks something huge lifts up and off Howon's shoulders. He takes a deep breath, forgets himself, and then is falling—when he comes to again he's watching himself coming, watching his cock shooting in Woohyun's fist. His breath stutters with the throbbing of his dick as he spills thick white come over Woohyun's fingers in hard pulses.

Woohyun holds his cock tight even after he's done, pumping out every last drop of come. It tickles a little bit, all the way behind Howon's balls and the small of his back. He's lightheaded and happy but honestly, he could go for more; he could stand here and let Woohyun jerk him off for hours, could come over and over again in his hand, but Woohyun does something even better. He removes his hand from Howon's dick, slicked up now with Howon's come, and starts to fist himself. He moans loud and his voice wavers and his brow knots tighter in concentration and pleasure. Howon's cock twitches and begins to swell again. He wonders if Woohyun's ever fantasized about this, about jerking off with Howon's spunk. The thought is so incredible it makes Howon dizzy.

Woohyun begins to move his hips, thrusting into his hand, the muscles on his thighs and stomach tight and clenching tighter. The noises are unmistakable now, vulgar squelching sounds as Woohyun fucks his fist, still dripping with Howon's come. Howon can barely breathe. He's painfully hard again, and thinking about what it would be like to watch Woohyun fuck something else: a toy, a pillow, a person.

Him.

"Oh god," Howon whispers. He puts his hands on Woohyun's chest, presses his fingertips into his muscles and the bones of his sternum and the hard beads of his nipples beneath his shirt. Woohyun gasps as Howon's hands roam over him; when Howon pinches his nipples, he shouts.

"Oh fuck," Woohyun grunts, his hips moving faster, and his free hand flies to Howon's arm, gripping his bicep. "Fuck—"

He gasps, sighs, and finally comes with one long, hard, final stroke. His body shakes in Howon's arms: with orgasm, with exhaustion, with release. His come spurts from his cock in a thick stream and splatters across the floor and against Howon's jeans. He grunts as he milks it out of himself, watching his orgasm fade away and shivering in its wake.

It feels like hours pass before they're calm down enough to speak. When Howon looks up at the clock, it's almost one.

"Jesus Christ," Woohyun breathes, glancing down between their bodies.

They're a mess. Woohyun's hair is a sweaty tangle, his stomach and chest are splattered with Howon's semen, and there's come all over the floor. They're both panting, Woohyun's eyes are big and glassy, and Howon's dick is still hard.

Howon takes a deep breath and exhales. He's dizzy, still trying to process what just happened. His mind is swirling like a whirlpool—but at least the water is clear.

Woohyun detaches from Howon's body and wipes his sticky hands on his pants. Howon scowls down at his own jeans, already crusty with come.

"Hey," Woohyun says, "are you playing tomorrow?"

"Yeah," Howon says, wiping his cock off with a towel he found on a bench.

Woohyun grunts. "Let me know if you need help. You know. Practicing."

Howon chuckles as he tucks himself back into his pants and picks his belongings up from the floor. He looks up at Woohyun and into his eyes, grinning.

"As if I'd want help from the likes of you," he says. He balls up the towel, takes aim at the bin, and tosses it neatly in.

Woohyun's laughter rings through empty room like a song.


End file.
